Justice and Watermelons

If justice means anything significant, that is, if it means something important enough that we want to shoulder the weight of our feelings and the route to which we achieve justice, justice would mean creating a world where I can remain unencumbered.

For example, I am on the back of a truck with one hundred watermelons and an arrow without a bow and the vastness of the sky is above me. I am obligated to the melons because they are not mine — but they are in my care — and I have to transport them to someone on the other side of the city. To someone with my bow. But the sky is immense and I know, if I hold in air, the air will carry me like a balloon and I can float to the top of skyscrapers, to the edges of the atmosphere, to space, to infinity. I know, within me, I am able to traverse air. But I have all of these watermelons and a bow that is puncturing my ability to dream and be big.

The watermelons are dense and ripe and I want to smash them into fleshy jagged bits so the insides bleed fruit juice. An imaginative pedestrian may pass the dismembered watermelons and think the scattered, refashioned fruit is some person’s entrails or brain matter on the sidewalk. I want to smash the watermelons in pieces so small the fruit has no other possible course of action than to disappear. And I will leave notes on the road leading to the person who owns the bow that all say, “I am sorry; I love you. I’m sorry; I love you.” I’ll attach the arrow to the last note so the person knows I am not cruel, merely unjust. I am desperate to be unencumbered. So desperate to breathe in the universe that made me and sail into the sky.


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